The sky breaks softly—

not in silence,

but in a slow-burning confession of light.

Gold spills through the ribs of clouds,

like something sacred trying to escape,

like a secret the horizon can’t keep anymore.

The trees stand still,

bare, listening—

their branches inked against the fire of dawn,

as if they’ve seen this before

and know better than to speak.

Below, the water remembers everything.

It holds the sky without question,

mirrors the glow without hesitation,

a quiet twin to a world above

that never stays.

Even the cold reeds bow gently,

edged in winter’s breath,

watching the day arrive

as if it’s both a beginning

and a goodbye.

And somewhere in that reflection—

between the light and its echo—

there’s a moment that doesn’t belong to time,

only to stillness,

only to you

standing there,

witnessing it.